I walked into work last Sunday and noticed that the bar was full of tuxedo jackets and bow ties. All of the waiters were crowded around the television as the Steelers and Patriots lined up to battle for a SuperBowl spot. A sickly young boy was leaning against his father, belting our national anthem into the mic, the ferocity of his singing zapping all of his strength. To my right, our Columbian chef mouthed the words along with him. In front of me, three Mexican waiters held their hands over their hearts. Our Croatian matre'di is humming too and I notice that I have tears in my eyes.
Our anthem always does that to me. It wasn't necessarily just the diverse group of people surrounding me, so grateful for the citizenship that so many of us take for granted. It wasn't the rarity of watching grown men in football uniforms and military stripes wipe tears from wintry red cheeks. It wasn't even the off-key notes of this sick little boy.
It's just this pride. It usually wells up around "And the rockets' red glare..." and I can't help but sing out by "O say does that Star Spangled..."
I remember when Jerrod and I first started dating. We were out riding around in his truck, windows down, warm autumn day. There was no radio, just comfortable space and a very new love. For some reason, I started to sing under my breath, "O say can you see.." and he joined in... loudly... with gusto. We were singing our country's anthem with vigor and passion. We paid no attention to notes or harmony or any type of musicality. We were giggling so hard by the finale, that he couldn't drive. We stopped for ice cream and laughed and laughed and I knew that this little patriot was the one for me.
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